Smoke and Mirrors
by Gutterbunny
Summary: Harry, four or five years after graduation, fed up with Draco and his whiny ways, runs away and seeks refuge at Hermione's place. Of course, Draco finds him in the end.


Author's note: My new CD (and Bondagechic) put me in the mood for this. Blame it on Alanis Morissette. 

Never forget that Gutterbunny loves you… (in a platonic way – unless stated otherwise). 

To Bondagechic, who wanted to see Harry stand up to Draco just once. 

* * * 

_And any talk of selflessness_   
_And any talk of working at this_   
_And any talk of being of service_   
_Leaves you running for the door._

Narcissus by Alanis Morissette 

* * * 

Harry had been thinking all day. As much as he loved Draco – no, 'love' was the wrong word… 'adoration' and 'worship' were better – the relationship simply wasn't working. And he was sick of trying and trying to repair it, up to his neck in conflict resolution, while Draco sat back and watched his efforts with a smirk. 

The love they had once had was dissolving, and if Draco wouldn't do anything about it, neither would he. After five years, their bond had grown thin. What held them together, apart from the sex? 

_Nothing…_

Dejected, Harry made his way towards his bedroom – the two had separate rooms in theory. But Harry used his only when he and Draco had huge fights, fights that started off as small things – "You need a haircut, Harry, love" – and were quickly blown out of proportion. 

To make up with Draco, Harry would steal silently to the blonde's room and wake him with a kiss – but that had been before. Before Harry had done some serious thinking and decided that he deserved more. 

* * * 

"Harry, *what* are you doing?" Draco, propped up against the doorway, watched Harry throw his Snitch-decorated boxer shorts in a black valise. 

"P-packing," Harry said. 

"Love, I know you like to travel, but the tickets for Cancun aren't booked yet." 

"I'm not packing to travel," Harry muttered, then sat up straight-backed, looking a bit like his old self – which meant, before Draco. "I'm packing to _leave_. I'm leaving." 

Draco raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. "Shall I get a house-elf to pack your things?" he asked, seemingly joking. Harry did not laugh. 

"No, thank you…" Harry suddenly could _not_ stand that mocking smirk that twisted the blonde's lips – and Draco's couldn't-care-less attitude only made things worse. "Draco, don't you _care_?!" he snapped, turning away from the valise and grabbing him by the shoulders. "I'm _leaving_! Does that leave you indifferent? Aren't you going to try and stop me?" 

Draco pried Harry's fingers off, slowly, then shook his head. 

"And I thought you _loved_ me," spat Harry bitterly, giving the Malfoy a glare. 

Draco smirked. "If you _are_ leaving, it might be for the best," he remarked. 

Harry, aghast and shocked, lunged half-heartedly at Draco and missed by a good two feet. Draco stared at him with an expression of mixed disgust and curiosity. Harry, who had come close to hitting the wall, leaned against it and breathed heavily. He closed his eyes – they stung – he was almost _crying_, which was something he had not done for years – nearly a decade. Well, he wasn't going to cry now. 

He turned doggedly, and walked out the door, leaving Draco alone with the valise. 

* * * 

Dinner was a quiet affair that night, the only sound being the clatter of the utensils hitting the plates, and the nervous squeaks of the house-elf. It was just the two of them, Narcissa and Lucius having left the table early, giggling and hand in hand – Harry suspected that Narcissa had sneaked Viagra into Lucius' duck l'orange. 

"I finished packing for you," Draco said, brightly, sweetly. 

"What?" exclaimed Harry, dropping his fork into his plate, doubly surprised – by Draco's words, of course, and by the fact that the silver-eyed had done a _chore_ for the first time in his life. 

"If you're going away on a trip by yourself, the sooner the better," Draco went on, waving his fork – silver filigree – in the air for emphasis. 

"What?!" 

Draco did not reply, merely looked at his plateful of Greek salad and half-smirked. 

"Aren't you going to try and stop me?" 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"I know that there's no point in discussing with you when you've got _that_ look on your face. I can understand that after five years, there can be, ah, a strain on the relationship – a short break will do us both good. I'm not pushing you out the door; I want you back rested with a twinkle in your eye." Draco daintily wiped his mouth with his napkin. 

"I… I mean…" Flabbergasted, Harry stared, mouth open. 

"Planning on catching flies?" inquired Draco with a raise of his thin eyebrows. 

Harry closed his mouth. 

"That's better. Incidentally, before you go, how about making an appointment with my hair-stylist? Your hair is in a desperate need for a trim. And… that fuzzy growth on your chin… what _were_ you thinking, Harry? It's no designer stubble." 

"I…" 

"You. Always about you, isn't it." 

Harry was so struck by his ridiculous words that he began to stammer, "Fucking - fucking bastard - fuck..." 

"Shut up." The words were harsh. 

Harry, white with anger and something else, threw his napkin onto his plate. He got out of his chair so fast it slid across the floor and hit a house-elf in the stomach – the little creature yelped and its ridiculously big eyes were filled with tears. Seeing the pain that he had caused only fueled Harry's rage; he stormed past the elf and upstairs to the crimson-and-gold room that had once been his sanctuary. 

* * * 

Five years. Five years. Five years. Five years. 

The words ricocheted inside the numb hollowness of Harry's mind. He wanted nothing else but escape, by whatever means. His own pain was so intense that nothing else mattered – and Harry Potter was very rarely so self-centered. 

Five years of unwavering devotion on his part, and what did he have to show for it? He hadn't, as he had hoped, broken Draco of his annoying habits. After all the love that he had given, what did he have to show for it? Three meals a day, sex twice a day, and Draco nagging at him to get a haircut. 

It wasn't dreadfully romantic… 

There was also the rankling knowledge that he could go to the other end of the world for his escape – but he could never forget what had happened; five years worth of memories didn't just disappear at will. It was a case of 'you can run but you can't hide'. 

This couldn't go on. Not much longer. There were limits. Harry had himself to think of. Draco didn't need him. Or if he did, he certainly didn't show it. Was he trying to prove he had no weaknesses?… didn't he know that Harry wanted to feel needed once in a while? Was he being purposely hateful? 

Dizzy with this stinging swarm of unanswerable questions, Harry slumped against the bed. Hot tears dripped down his cheeks. He didn't wipe them away. 

* * * 

Hours melted into days, and on the third Harry had made up his mind to leave. Where to? Hermione's flat. He'd camp out on her couch, then go to Diagon Alley's Leaky Cauldron for a few days until he got things together. 

Then what? He'd leave the country. Couldn't risk Draco finding him – although a part of Harry desperately wanted to be found. He'd go somewhere exotic and faraway and mysterious – Canada, for instance. Visions of maple syrup-covered pancakes and red-jacketed men riding horses danced in his head. 

He had everything ready – the money, the baggage, the fare for the Knight Bus – he also had Floo Powder, just in case. 

He would pretend it was a vacation – away from Draco, the Manor, the house-elves… Away from the sex-hungry Veela and the antique furniture… Mmm… freedom…. 

* * * 

The next day he had changed his tune, after he had tried to call the Knight Bus seventeen times and failed each time. He had a room in a Muggle roadside motel, a cheap little building that seemed ready to collapse on itself at any minute. 

The room was even more pathetic. The bed was narrow, rickety and the blankets had suspicious-looking stains. The only other piece of furniture was a wooden chair missing a leg; in lieu of a dresser there was a drawer in the center of the room, in which Harry unceremoniously dumped his valise, not bothering to unpack even a sock. 

He didn't wash his face – the trickle of water coming from the sole tap in the bathroom was brown – but instead sat down on the bed. "Freedom," he hissed, angry with himself, feeling ready to give all his worldly goods in exchange for transportation back to the Manor – bitch/unaithful!Draco or not. "I'm Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived," he went on, "what am I doing in this hole?" 

He ended his auto-diatribe with a yawn, and fell into a restless sleep. 

He dreamt of Draco. 

* * * 

The following day he was in Hermione's village, St. Catchpole – the next village was the Weasleys', Ottery St. Catchpole. The villagers seemed friendly – it was a wizarding city, and everybody who happened to see him walking down the road to his friend's house, world-worn, pointed to him and squealed, "Harry Potter! Harry POTTER!" 

The flat that Hermione lived in was small – it seemed to Harry the same size as the tent that she and Ginny had slept in during the Quidditch World Cup. It was a friendly-looking place, with brightly-coloured daffodils bobbing their heads in the wind by the door. He knocked. 

She opened the door quickly, and smiled widely in surprise when she saw who it was. "Harry – what on earth?…" she questioned, stepping aside to give him room to enter. 

"Hi," Harry grunted, dropping his valise in the doorway. "I'm – is it a bad time? If it is I'm sorry, but – " 

"No, of course not, but I could hardly help being astonished." Hermione led him into the living-room, and sat down in a red fauteuil. Harry opted for the small forest-green sofa. She looked at him expectantly, and he realized that she was waiting for him to explain the reason for his presence. 

"Draco was – the – the – there wasn't any love any more." 

"Fickle," said Hermione, shaking her head in disgust, "I've always told you that, Harry. One could hardly expect that man to know his own mind from one day to the next." 

"And when I said I was leaving – I didn't even say for good, Mione, I wanted a break – he acted like he didn't care. Like I was going to summer camp or something." He gulped in big lungfuls of air, the searing pain as fresh as ever. 

"He's not exactly the caring sort," Hermione remarked, patting his arm comfortably. 

"I thought he loved me," he whined. 

"I think he did, once. Or at least he thought he did. You've got to understand, Harry, that Malfoy wanted you in seventh year. He knew how to get you, and once he did you weren't a challenge anymore. He must have simply gotten bored with you," she said, and picked up a tray from the small coffee table in front of her. "Crumpet? They were in the oven an hour ago." 

"No, thanks." 

"Your loss," Hermione said, taking three, "I make good crumpets, if I do say so myself." 

Harry did not reply immediately, and all was silence for a few seconds – save for the sound of Hermione scarfing down crumpets with the gluttony of a cat swallowing tuna. Then he said, "You're lucky you live with someone who loves you." 

"So about Malfoy," Hermione said, blushing a bit, changing the subject adroitly, "I suppose you've run away?" 

"Yeah," said Harry, and under his breath, before he could stop himself, he muttered, "I'll miss his Quidditch pitch, the bloody bastard." 

"I think you should stay away and from the Manor for a few months," she suggested. "Then…" 

"Go back?" finished Harry glumly. 

"No," she said carefully, "but… maybe I could go, or something. And see if he's… changed…" 

"He doesn't change easily," said Harry thickly. 

"Obviously," said Hermione. "Well, you can stay here no problem – unless you mind sleeping on the couch. There's no guest room." 

"Right," said Harry. 

"Of course a small couch will seem... different after the Malfoy manor beds, but..." 

"Don't worry about it." 

* * * 

_This sentimentality doesn't look good on me_   
_I thought that you would be begging to be with me_

Thanks, That Was Fun by the Bare-Naked Ladies (who are actually fully clothed men). 

* * * 

"It's been two weeks since he left," said Draco to Blaise, in a melancholy voice, as he watched the snow whirling about in a frenzied flurry of white. 

Blaise looked away so that Draco wouldn't see her smiling. Everything had gone excellently well between her and Terry the past few weeks, and Harry's unexpected departure was the cherry on the ice-cream sundae. "I thought he would," she said. 

"What on earth do you mean?" Draco's voice was raised to a shrill pitch. "Blaise – you didn't – do anything – or say anything to – to make him leave – did you?" 

"He wouldn't have left because of me," said Blaise. "He left because of you, obviously." She spoke smugly. 

"What do you mean?" 

"You've been cruel to him these past few months," Blaise explained lazily, "even I felt it, and you know I tend to stay out of your affairs." 

Draco looked askance at her. Blaise had certainly changed. She was no longer the pouting, moody teenager of Hogwarts no longer, wearing loose clothes to hide her figure. She was actually wearing a dress – a tight one, black silk – and lying on her back on the divan, her shoeless feet resting on the ottoman. Bad Narcissa influence, Draco decided. 

"I was never cruel to him," he murmured. 

"You and your delusions," Blaise commented lightly, looking out the window herself – dreaming, Draco knew, of Bootboy. 

Yes, she _had_ changed. 

"I may have to go after him." 

"Go." 

"Would you come with me?" 

"Why on earth would I?" demanded Blaise. "I hate the man. He's your fucktoy. You go hunt him down. It's a wild goose chase. He'll have hidden his tracks." 

"You're… heartless." 

"I never liked Potter. What you're asking is senseless." She shook her head stubbornly. "You can hire detectives." 

"He won't come back if I send a detective after him," said Draco absently. 

"He can be easily replaced," Blaise shrugged. 

"Replaced!" Draco seemed perfectly outraged at the idea. "Replaced? I… I…" 

"If you say you love him," said Blaise calmly, "I will slap you upside the head. I thought you had taste. You did once – Potter degraded you. I knew he would. The little fuck." 

"Shut UP," growled Draco, "or _I_ will slap you." 

"There's no point in looking for him," Blaise said, ignoring her cousin's previous comment. "He's not like those dogs and cats you see on Muggle TV - *he* won't find his way home." She sniggered. 

"Blaise - _shut up!_" 

"It's a free country, I can express my opinion if I want to. And my opinion, Draco Malfoy, is this: Harry Potter is a fucking - _eyeeeeow!_" 

Draco, eyes nearly black with rage, had neatly backhanded her across the face. Blaise put a hand up to her stinging cheek, on which the red imprint of her cousin's wrathful hand was still clear. 

"How - _passe_," said Blaise, glaring at him. "Utterly lame. Draco, dear, if you even attempt that again I will repeatedly kick you in the crotch until reproduction and pissing straight will be out of the question for years. _Compris_?" 

Draco snorted. 

"I mean it, you weak little prat," snarled the brunette. "You've got arms as thin as twigs. I can kick your ass. I _will_ kick your ass. Bitch." 

"I'd like to see you try," snorted Draco. 

"You asked for it." 

"_OWWW!"_

"Ha!" 

"You cow!" 

"You whiny-arse crybaby!" 

"You little harlot!" 

"You blonde slut!" 

"... you corset-wearing ho!" 

"Skank!" 

"Poohead!" 

"Whore!" 

And so the catfight continued well into the night, Blaise proving herself victorious by repeatedly pulling out tufts of Draco's artificially-coloured hair. 

* * * 

"Right," said Draco, pointing to a purple spot on the map of wizarding England he was hunched upon. "That's Weasley's house. Harry is bound to be there." 

"You mistake me for someone who is remotely interested in anything concerning Potter," Blaise said. 

"And if he isn't," continued Draco, ignoring her rude interruption, "Weasley's going to know where he is." 

It was two days after the fierce catfight between the two cousins, and Draco, who had apparently decided to let bygones be bygones, had swept Blaise up in his plans to find Harry. 

"I can't believe you would stoop to speak to Weasley," drawled Blaise. 

"Whatever it takes," Draco told the map under his breath. 

"Also - even though Potter hasn't a speck of intelligence - why would he go to Weasley's at all, if it's so obvious?" 

She had a point, Draco conceded. "I don't know." 

"You'll never find him," said Blaise pessimistically, no small amount of glee in her voice. "He could be anywhere." 

"I know him -" stubbornly -"and he wouldn't stay alone after... all this. He's with Granger if not at Weasley's." 

"Why bother?" insisted Blaise meanly. "Forget about him. Move on. Get a mail-order bride." 

"I don't want a mail-order bride, I want HARRY!" cried Draco. 

"He's... warped your senses," muttered Blaise. 

"I'm going to Weasley's first. I'll pump him for details." 

"When?" 

"Tomorrow. Binny!" Draco snapped his fingers and a house-elf ran to him. "Get a carriage ready. I'm going on a small trip." 

"Get _two_ carriages ready," corrected his cousin. "I'm not going to watch you get all cozy with Potty on the way back." 

* * * 

A little over twenty-four hours later, Draco and Blaise had arrived at Hermione and Padma's flat. Draco banged on the door insistently, occasionally wincing at the pain in his fists, while Blaise suppressed yawns and rang the doorbell. 

This all made a racket not dissimilar to the noise created when Crookshanks got into fights with the neighboring Familiars. Hermione, groaning, lifted her head off the pillow. 

"What the hell is _that_?" she demanded. 

Padma, next to her, shrugged and pulled a dressing-gown on top of her black-cat pyjamas. "Dunno." 

"Burglars?" suggested Hermione. 

"We've got wands. And Harry can... protect us with his manly strenght." 

"Manly strenght my Aunt Ruby," snorted the ex-Head Girl, hopping out of bed. 

Together they made their way to the living room, where Harry, unusually pale, sank back beneath his bedcovers. 

"It's Draco," he murmured. 

"Good Lord," said Padma in an annoyed way, "you'd think he'd have the decency to spend the night at a hotel and come back in the morning." 

"Decency is not what the Malfoys are noted for," Hermione remarked as she took out her wand and pointed it towards the door. "_Alohomora!_" 

Draco, who had been leaning too heavily against the door, toppled inside, sprawling ungracefully on the rug. Blaise, pulling her fur coat against her, stood on the threshold, apparently too disgusted too enter.   
  
  
"Be quick about it," she hissed in the direction of Draco's prone body. 

"Right," said Draco, picking himself up. "Harry?" 

The black-haired youth had been trying to hide between the sofa cushions whilst whimpering and trying not to wet himself. 

"Harry," said Draco again, and still the man did not move. 

"Harry!" 

"... sorry," muttered the Boy Who Lived. He slowly, mournfully got off the sofa and towards Draco. 

Hermione, who had been watching, almost enthralled, suddenly made a tutting noise at the back of her throat. 

"Padma," she said, pushing her lover towards Draco, "why don't you... entertain Draco here - no, I didn't mean _that_ way - while I talk to Harry..." She gripped the scarred one's collar, giving him no choice, and pulled him into a corner of the room. 

Blaise, from the doorway, snorted and hissed, "I don't even know why I'm here." 

"Harry," said Hermione urgently. "What the hell are you doing? Are you just going to leave with him, like that?" She snapped her fingers for emphasis. "I thought you were showing some backbone for once! After all he did to you - after all you told me about him - how can you just go crawling back to him with your tail between your legs?" Her fingers gripped his shoulders, digging into the skin, deep enough to draw blood. "That's fucking hypocrisy, Harry! Has this been some sort of game - 'I'll hide until he finds me and then I'll turn myself in'?! You're going to go back to him... is that what you want?" 

"I think it is," said Harry thoughtfully, prying her hands off him. 

Draco, who had overheard, brightened up at this, and Padma shot him a disgusted glare. From the front porch, Blaise gave her a 'the feeling is mutual' look. 

"I love him," Harry added. 

"But he doesn't love _you,_ you little bespectacled git!" Hermione threw her arms up in frustration. "He doesn't _deserve_ you!" 

"I deserve him," Harry said thoughtfully. 

Draco smiled approvingly. 

"Can we leave already?" called Blaise impatiently, stamping her foot. 

* * * 

On the way back, Draco and Harry, one triumphant, one poutingly sad, snuggled in the carriage's back seat, which was covered in furs to keep the passengers warm. 

"I love you," whispered Draco in a voice fraught with promise. He dropped butterfly kisses on Harry's neck. 

"Not too sure about that," said Harry, shivering at the feel of Draco's lips again his skin. 

"Why, I came after you, didn't I?" 

"Yes, I suppose the Veelas must have syphilis right now and Blaise won't let you touch her." 

"_Harry!_" 

"That's the only possible explanation." 

"I _missed_ you, you idiot," Draco said. 

"Really?" 

"Yes. I told you, I love you." 

A sigh, deep and laden with bitterness and rancor, tragedy and apprehension. 

"I love you too." 

* * * 

This fic sucks, doesn't it? It was done in a hurry, so the ending's a bit abrupt. Still, that doesn't mean you shouldn't review.   
  
  



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